#soft bucky

You stare down at your phone where his name is still sitting at the top of your messages, thumb hovering over the screen. There’s a draft reply typed out—something witty, something a little flirty, something you’ll regret approximately five minutes after sending.

“Don’t,” you mutter to yourself, locking your phone with a decisive click and shoving it into your bag. “We are not doing that today.”

Growth. Maturity. Healing.

You repeat the words like a mantra as you push open the door to the little corner bakery you’ve started frequenting lately, the one with the crooked chalkboard sign out front and the soft golden lighting that always makes everything feel calmer than it actually is.

The smell hits you first. Warm bread, sugar, something cinnamon-y. It wraps around you like a hug, easing the tight knot in your chest just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper under your breath, stepping into line. “New plan. Carbs instead of bad decisions.”

Progress.

You’re so busy trying to decide between a croissant and a muffin (or both, let’s be honest) that you don’t notice the man stepping back from the counter at the same time you step forward.

You collide.

Hard.

“Shit—!”

“Oh—sorry, I—”

It’s chaos. Your bag slips off your shoulder, your phone tumbles out, and the iced coffee you’d been holding tips dangerously, sloshing over the lid and straight onto him.

You freeze.

There’s a moment—a long, horrible moment—where you just stare at the spreading stain across his dark henley, your brain short-circuiting as panic floods your system.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. I didn’t— I wasn’t looking and—”

“I stepped back,” he interrupts gently, already reaching for napkins. “That’s on me.”

His voice is low. Warm. Calm in a way that immediately slows the frantic spiral in your chest.

You blink up at him and then promptly forget how to breathe.

He’s unfair.

That’s the only word for it. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that looks like it never quite behaves and eyes so blue they almost don’t seem real. There’s a softness to his expression, though, something careful tucked beneath all that intimidating size, like he’s worried about startling you.

You, meanwhile, are actively dying.

“No, that is absolutely not on you,” you insist, grabbing napkins and dabbing uselessly at his shirt. “I assaulted you with coffee. This is—this is a crime, actually.”

That gets a small huff of laughter out of him.

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” you say firmly. “It’s cold brew. That stuff stains souls.”

He smiles at that and something in your chest does an unfortunate little flip.

“It’ll wash out,” he assures you. “Promise.”

You finally manage to look away, crouching to scoop up your phone before you can embarrass yourself further. “Still. I owe you. Dry cleaning, at least. Or… a new shirt. Or… emotional damages.”

“Emotional damages?” he echoes, amused.

“I’ve ruined your morning,” you say, straightening. “That counts.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second, something soft flickering there before he shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You huff a quiet laugh, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re being very nice about this for someone who just got baptized in caffeine.”

“I’ve had worse mornings,” he admits.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you gesture toward the counter, where the barista is watching the entire exchange with open curiosity. “At least let me buy your coffee. Replacement coffee. Non-weaponized this time.”

He hesitates just for a second.

Then, “Only if I can buy yours.”

You blink. “That feels like a scam.”

“Compromise,” he counters, one corner of his mouth lifting.

You study him for a moment, suspicion warring with something much softer, much more dangerous.

“Fine,” you say finally. “But if you try to Venmo me later, I’m blocking you.”

He laughs again—quieter this time, but just as warm. “Deal.”

You step up to the counter together, placing your orders side by side. It feels easy. Weirdly easy, considering you just committed accidental coffee-based assault.

While you wait, you shift your weight, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He’s watching the barista, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed now that the initial chaos has passed.

“You come here a lot?” you ask, immediately wincing internally. Wow. Original.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s close to my place. Good bread.”

“Strong argument,” you nod. “I come here when I need to make better life choices.”

He glances at you then, brow faintly furrowed. “Better than what?”

You hesitate.

Your phone feels heavy in your bag, like it’s listening.

“…questionable texting habits,” you admit vaguely.

Understanding flickers across his face—surprisingly quick, surprisingly gentle.

“Ah,” he says. “Yeah. Been there.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Once or twice.”

Something about that—about the way he says it like he’s not proud of it, like he’s learned from it—makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety.

Your name is called.

You step forward, grabbing the drinks before turning back to him and holding one out. “Here. Peace offering.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m Bucky.”

You repeat your name, and it feels strange, like it matters more than it should.

You linger by the counter for a second too long, both of you sipping your drinks, neither quite moving to leave.

“Well,” you say finally, gesturing toward the door. “I should probably go make more responsible choices.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Me too.”

Neither of you move.

Then he clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Hey, uh—”

You look up.

“If you ever need a distraction from those questionable decisions,” he says, a little tentative now, “I come here most mornings.”

Your heart does something very inconvenient.

You glance down at your coffee, then back up at him.

“…carbs instead of bad decisions,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

You hesitate for half a second longer, just long enough to feel the weight of your phone in your bag, the ghost of that unfinished message still waiting.

Then you make your choice.

“Tomorrow morning?” you ask.

His smile softens, something warm and almost relieved settling into his expression.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.

You notice every single one of them.

You always do.

Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.

God.

You swallow.

“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.

His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”

You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”

His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod too fast. “Mhm.”

Another pause.

His thumb keeps moving.

“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”

Your face burns.

“I—no, I haven’t.”

Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.

“Doll.”

And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.

“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”

His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.

“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”

“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You might actually pass away.

You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.

“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”

Silence.

Oh God.

You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—

“Oh.”

It’s soft. Almost breathless.

You risk a glance up.

Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.

His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”

“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”

“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.

That does something to him.

You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.

Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.

His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.

You go easily, curling into his side.

And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.

“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.

Safe.

Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.

“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”

“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”

Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.

“I always want you close,” you admit.

That completely ruins him.

You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.

“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”

You nod against his chest.

“Okay.”

His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.

You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.

But you’ve seen the way he looks at plums.

Two weekends in a row at the farmer’s market, you’ve watched him pause at the stand. He never says anything, never reaches out, just slows down enough to glance. His fingers twitch once, like he might pick one up, then he keeps walking.

Both times, you’d asked, “You like plums?”

And both times, he’d shrugged, all casual like it didn’t matter. “They’re okay.”

But Bucky Barnes is a terrible liar when it comes to the small things.

So today, when he’d left for a quick mission debrief and told you he’d be back before dinner, you’d gone straight to the market and bought a whole basket.

Now the pie sits finished on the counter, golden and bubbling slightly at the edges where the filling has peeked through. You’ve been hovering around it for the last ten minutes, checking it, turning it, pretending you’re not a little nervous.

It’s just a pie.

It’s not even for anything.

No anniversary, no birthday, no reason at all.

You just… couldn’t stand watching him walk past something he clearly wanted.

The sound of the front door unlocking makes your head snap up.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice carries through the apartment, low and familiar, a little rough around the edges from the day.

“In the kitchen!” you call back, wiping your hands on a towel and tryingnnot to hover.

His footsteps are heavy, grounded, moving closer. There’s the soft clink of his gear being set down, the quiet exhale he always lets out when he finally steps inside, like he can breathe properly again.

Then he rounds the corner.

And stops.

You watch it happen in real time—the way his brows pull together first, confusion flickering across his face as his gaze lands on you, then shifts past you, catching on the pie.

He blinks.

“What… is that?”

You huff a small laugh, suddenly shy under his stare. “It’s a pie, Buck.”

“I can see that,” he says slowly, stepping further into the kitchen like he’s approaching something fragile. “I mean, why is there a pie?”

You lean back against the counter, shrugging like it’s no big deal even though your heart is doing something a little too loud in your chest. “I made it.”

He looks at you like that explains absolutely nothing.

“Yeah,” he says, dragging the word out. “I got that part.”

You bite your lip, then gesture toward it. “It’s plum.”

That’s what does it.

It’s subtle, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it, but you see the way his entire expression shifts. The confusion is still there, but it softens, something else slipping in underneath it. Something quieter.

“…plum?” he repeats.

You nod, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “You kept looking at them. At the market.”

His eyes flick up to yours, sharp now. “You noticed that?”

“Of course I noticed,” you say, like it’s obvious. Because it is. Because you notice everything about him, even the things he tries not to show. “You didn’t buy any. Twice. It was starting to bother me.”

A faint, disbelieving huff of breath leaves him, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“So,” you add, softer now, gesturing again to the pie, “I got some. And I figured… I don’t know. Maybe you wanted them but weren’t gonna get them for yourself.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Bucky just stands there, staring at the pie like it’s something he’s not entirely sure is real. His metal hand flexes once at his side, the faint whir of it loud in the quiet kitchen.

“You made this,” he says finally.

“Yeah.”

“For me.”

It’s not a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yeah, Buck.”

“Why?”

You blink at him, thrown off by the genuine confusion in his voice. “What do you mean, why?”

His jaw shifts, like he’s trying to find the words and coming up short. “There’s no—” he gestures vaguely, “—thing. It’s not a special day or—”

You let out a soft laugh, pushing off the counter to step closer to him. “Do I need a reason?”

He looks at you like maybe you do. Like that’s the only way this makes sense in his head.

“You’ve been… lookin’ at plums,” you say, gentler now, reaching out to take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “That’s it. That’s the reason.”

Something in his expression cracks.

It’s quiet, the way it happens. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing out of him like he’s setting something down he didn’t realize he was carrying.

“You made me a whole pie,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “because I looked at some fruit.”

You smile, soft and a little teasing. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just awe. “Nobody does that.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “I do.”

That lands somewhere deep.

You can see it in the way his throat bobs, the way his grip on your hand tightens just a little.

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize the moment, or maybe understand it.

Then, before you can say anything else, he pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you, solid and warm, tucking you against his chest like he needs you close. Like this is the thing he’s been missing.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he mutters into your hair.

You laugh softly against him, your hands sliding up his back. “It’s just a pie.”

“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes bright in a way that makes your chest ache. “It’s not.”

His gaze flicks back to the counter, to the golden crust, then back to you.

“It’s you seein’ me,” he says quietly. “Even when I don’t say nothin’.”

Your expression softens.

“I always see you, Buck.”

You don’t even get another word out before he’s kissing you, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t quite say into it. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek where the flour still sits, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth when he notices it.

“Got flour on your face,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” you smile, breathless. “Worth it?”

He glances at the pie, then back at you, something warm and certain settling into his features.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Worth it.”

And later, when you finally cut into it and he takes his first bite, the way his eyes close—like he’s tasting something familiar, something he didn’t realize he missed—tells you everything you need to know.

You didn’t need a reason.

“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself,” Bucky snaps, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up at the ends, soft and messy in a way that completely contradicts the sharpness in his eyes. “I’m saying you don’t have to do everything alone.”

You huff out a breath, arms crossed tight over your chest. “And I’m saying I didn’t ask you to swoop in like I’m incapable.”

“That’s not—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “That’s not what I did.”

“It is, though,” you push, stepping closer. “You overrode my call. In front of the team.”

His shoulders tense. “Because it was the safer option.”

“For who?” you shoot back immediately. “You? Or me?”

His mouth opens, then shuts again. You can practically see the argument reshuffling in his head, trying to find the right angle, the right words. He exhales sharply through his nose, metal fingers flexing at his side.

“Why do you always twist it like that?” he mutters, quieter now but somehow more intense. “Like I’m the bad guy for wanting you safe.”

“And why do you always assume I need saving?” you fire back.

Silence cracks between you for half a second before he starts again, voice rising.

“Because I’ve seen what happens when things go wrong—”

“And I haven’t?” you interrupt, incredulous.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean, Bucky?”

Your voice echoes a little in the room. Too loud. Too sharp. But neither of you backs down.

He takes a step toward you now, closing the distance, eyes locked on yours. “I mean that I can’t—” He breaks off again, frustrated, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t just stand there and watch you—”

“What? Get hurt?” you challenge. “Make my own decisions? Be my own person?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps.

“Oh, but overriding me is?”

“It wasn’t about control—”

“It always feels like it is.”

That lands. You see it in the way his expression falters, just for a second. Something softer flickers underneath all that frustration—something almost wounded.

But he pushes past it, stubborn as ever.

“You think this is about control?” he says, stepping even closer, voice dropping again. “You really think I give a damn about being in charge?”

“Then what is it about?” you demand.

“It’s about you not ending up dead!” he bursts out, the words rough, ripped straight from his chest.

You blink at him, thrown by the rawness of it. His breathing is uneven now, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. His eyes—god, his eyes—are burning, but not with anger anymore. Something else. Something heavier.

“I’ve lost enough,” he continues, quieter but no less intense. “I’m not— I can’t just—” He shakes his head, clearly struggling to get it out. “You don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” you say, softer now. “But you don’t get me.”

His jaw tightens again. “I do.”

“No, you don’t,” you insist, stepping into his space now, close enough that your toes nearly touch his boots. “Because if you did, you’d trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“Then act like it.”

“I am—”

“You’re not!”

“I—”

You don’t let him finish.

You surge forward, grab the front of his shirt, and kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s abrupt and messy and a little bit desperate—more about stopping him than anything else.

For a split second, he goes completely still.

Like—completely.

Mid-rant. Mid-breath. Just… frozen.

You feel it. The way his body locks up under your hands. The way his lips stay parted in surprise instead of kissing you back.

It’s so sudden, so absurdly effective, that you almost laugh against his mouth.

When you pull back, just barely, you’re still close enough to feel his breath hitch.

Bucky blinks at you for a few seconds like his brain is playing catch up.

“…okay,” he says finally, voice flat with shock.

You stare at him.

“…okay?” you repeat.

He nods slowly, still looking a little stunned. “Yeah. Uh.” Another blink. “Yeah, that— that worked.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

And then something shifts.

Because now he’s looking at you differently. Not angry. Not frustrated.

Focused.

His hands, which had been hovering uselessly at his sides, suddenly come up—one settling at your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Do that again,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I was,” he admits, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “Still kind of am.”

“That didn’t fix anything,” you point out, even as your grip tightens on his shirt.

“No,” he agrees easily. “Not even a little.”

“Then why—”

He cuts you off this time—by kissing you back.

Where yours was impulsive, his is deliberate. Grounding. He leans into you, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies, his grip firm but not controlling—just there, steady and sure.

It knocks the rest of the fight right out of you.

Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging slightly, and he exhales against your lips like he’s been holding that breath the entire argument.

When he pulls back this time, it’s slower. Reluctant.

His forehead rests against yours.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters.

You huff out a soft laugh. “You started it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

He huffs, but there’s no real heat behind it now. Just leftover tension, slowly unwinding.

“I hate fighting with you,” he admits after a second, quieter.

“Then stop being so bossy,” you shoot back, but it’s softer now. Teasing.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your jaw. “Stop making me worry about you.”

“Can’t promise that.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Figured.”

There’s a pause.

“…you really just kissed me to shut me up?” he asks, like he’s only just processing that part.

You shrug, a little smug. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He stares at you for a second. It takes a second, but despite everything he lets out a chuckle.

Low and warm and a little disbelieving.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

But his hand stays on your waist.

But Bucky didn't look like a man caught red-handed. He just looked at you, and because it was you, his brain instantly turned to pure mush. His arms stayed locked right above his head, a goofy, completely relieved grin spreading fast across his face.

He looked like a giant, lovesick dummy standing on the cobblestones.

"Buck," you said, your voice still sweet, though your eyes narrowed slightly at the sky. "You all right?"

"Yeah." He finally dropped his arms to his sides, the grin splitting his face. "Fine. What are you doing here? You're early."

"My ma baked." You lifted the cloth bundle, leaning in just enough for him to catch the scent of sweet crust. "Thought I'd bring it down before my shift. For us."

For us.

He looked at the pie, then at the empty sky, and suddenly the goofy fog cleared and the terrifying math hit him like a frozen bucket.

The letter was in the air. The plan was supposed to be flawless. The pigeon was trained to find your face at your third-floor office window across town. What the hell were you doing here early? Why weren't you behind your desk?

He was too shocked at how fast his operational mechanics were crumbling to even think straight.

Now, he had two options here.

He could just tell the truth, right now on the cobblestones: It's a love letter. For you. I wanted it to be a surprise and you were supposed to be at your window and why are you here so early —

Or he could say something else, anything else, and pray to god he could fix it later.

Panic took the wheel. His brain jammed, his gears locked, and his mouth moved before he could stop it.

"Sent it for a dame," he said. "Over on Linden. Seamstress."

There it was. The worst possible option, selected instantly, executed immediately.

"A seamstress," you said. The warmth left your face so fast it was like a lamp going out. You had literally just watched him throw a mail bird into the wind, and now he was looking you in the eye, talking about a girl on Linden Avenue.

"Real pretty." He could hear himself spinning out, completely blind to the trap closing. "Dark hair. Works the late window. Been — working up to it for a while."

You looked at him for a beat. The sweet courtship smile vanished, replaced by something flat, hard, and furious.

"Barnes," you said, your voice cutting through the humid air like an iron sheet. "Is Steve in?"

The sudden use of his last name hit him like a physical slap. You didn't even wait for him to answer; you walked straight past his shoulder.

He watched the back of your coat, his brain still entirely jammed on the fact that his pigeon was currently flying toward an empty office.

He thought about the second line of the letter.

I've tried starting this four times. I keep stopping because it doesn't come out right and I'd rather it come out right.

Past tense now, apparently.

Steve looked up from the kitchen table when the door rattled open. His face did that open, uncomplicated thing it always did whenever people he liked showed up.

"Oh, you didn't have to —"

"My ma insisted." You set the pie down. Not on the table, but directly into his hands, your fingers pressing firmly against the tin.

The smile you gave him was blinding, but your eyes were like flint. Bucky stepped through the threshold behind you, his face completely pale. "This is for you, Steve. Do NOT share it with James."

Steve's fingers, already hooked around the tin, went entirely rigid.

He looked down at the pie. He looked up at your terrifyingly bright smile. Then he looked over your shoulder at Bucky, who was standing there with his mouth hanging open, entirely paralysed by his failed bird mechanics.

Bucky was too busy short-circuiting over the pigeon to even register the execution drop of his own first name.

But Steve registered it. Steve clocked the jawline, clocked the steely "James," and calculated the exact radius of the explosion.

With the profound wisdom of a man who wanted to live to see Friday, Steve slowly pulled the tin to his chest, picked up a fork, and decided his only job in this apartment was to chew.

"...Right," Steve said softly.

Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Wow, this is so tasty," Steve said, taking a massive bite. He nodded, committing entirely to the food.

"You're welcome, dear Steve," you said. Your voice was perfect, entirely too sweet, your teeth flashing. Bucky stood just inside the frame with absolutely nowhere to put his hands.

If he could just say it. It was for you. The letter is for you. There is no seamstress, I'm a coward.

The window behind him gave a dull, heavy thump.

He turned.

The pigeon was sliding down the glass, feathers ruffling against the grime. It reached the sill, steadied itself, and sat there blinking through the dirt.

Bucky’s stomach dropped through the floorboards. The stupid bird. The absolute, bird-brained idiot.

He had spent three weeks training the thing down by the docks, using bits of dried fruit to get it to sight you, specifically. Go to the face. Go to where they are. It was supposed to be easy — an airtight delivery straight to your third-floor office window while you were trapped behind your desk.

Except you weren't behind your desk. You were standing right here.

The bird hadn't looked for the office brick; it had tracked your face right down the avenue, and these godforsaken tenement windows didn't even slide up without a crowbar and three prayers.

It was a total, unmitigated operational disaster.

You didn't even turn around. You were already talking to Steve about the crust, murmuring something about cold butter while Steve nodded along, suddenly very invested in bakery logistics.

"I have to get back before Holt notices," you said, pulling your gloves on by the fingers. To Steve, warmly: "Enjoy."

To the general vicinity of the room, which technically included Bucky but touched nothing near him: silence.

The door clicked shut.

Steve looked at his friend. Bucky was staring straight at the wood grain of the door. Behind them, the pigeon shifted on the stone sill, the paper still strapped tightly to its leg, settling in to wait.

Steve took another bite of pie. He didn't offer any.

"Steve."

"Mm."

"Bring that here."

"They said not to."

"It's my pie. Their ma made it for me."

"They put it in my hands, Buck. Specifically. In my hands."

"You little scallion —"

"Nope."

Bucky dropped heavily into the chair across from him, staring at the tin. Steve cut himself another slice. He had right on his side, and a fork to prove it.

Behind them, the pigeon tapped the glass.

"I have to fix this," Bucky muttered.

"Probably," Steve agreed.

"The letter's still out there."

Steve paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What letter?"

Bucky dropped his face into his palms. Steve set the fork down, very slowly. He looked at the window, then at the grey feathers on the sill, and then back at Bucky.

"Oh, Buck."

"Don't."

"You sent them a —"

"Steven, I'm begging you."

Steve looked at the remaining pie. He looked at Bucky’s ruined expression. He slid the tin two inches across the table. Not all the way, but just enough.

"Start talking," he said.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

$ join taglist

He clocks you on a Tuesday at half two in the afternoon.

He's in the armchair by the window — good sightlines, old habit — and you're at the table with a datapad and a posture that has been declining for the better part of an hour. He'd noted it without categorising it at first, the way you note weather. Then you reached for your coffee and your hand had a slight lag to it, and he looked properly.

Glassy eyes. Page 91, first indicator.

Breathing pattern — laboured, nasal. Page 91, third.

The sway. You keep listing two degrees left and correcting before it gets anywhere. Page 92 has a diagram he'd thought was overly literal at the time. It is not overly literal.

He closes the book on his thumb, gets up, and crosses the room.

"You are sick," he says.

Not a question, more like a field assessment.

"A little," you say, which he takes as a confirmation. "Don't worry about it, I can —"

"You should be resting."

"I will. Once I finish this section."

He looks at the section, then at that stubborn look of yours. He consults Mr. Guile.

"Would you like chamomile tea or masala chai?"

You blink. "What?"

"I think the chai is better." He finds the line. "Warmth should feel intentional, not incidental." He looks up. "Chamomile is more incidental."

"Says who?"

"Says Mr. Guile." He says it the way someone says says the manual — simply, as information. He's already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make both."

"You don't have to make —"

But he's already gone.

You're not entirely sure how it happened.

One moment you're at the table, fully intending to finish the brief. Then there's a blanket around your shoulders. It’s the big fluffy throw from the back of the couch, Wanda's, unmoved for four months. You're on the couch with two mugs are on the coffee table in front of you.

Chamomile on the left. Masala chai on the right, steaming.

"I started the chai first," Bucky says, from the kitchen doorway. "Because it takes longer. So they'd finish at the same time."

You open your mouth, but close it when he disappears again. Something smells like stock.

You look at the mugs. You look at the blanket, which is tucked around you with a thoroughness that suggests it was not casually draped. You look at your hands, which are not holding a datapad. This is already a problem you don't know how to address from inside a throw blanket.

He comes back with a bowl, sets it on the table, sits in the armchair across from you, and then goes still.

You watch him look at the soup, your bundled self in the blanket, and then your arms. Oh. Look at the blanket. He does the geometry.

He reaches for the book — pages to a section and reads it twice, lips moving slightly.

Then he picks up the spoon, fills it, and holds it out with the steady focus of someone who has decided on a course of action and wil be seeing it through.

You stare at him.

"Chapter 6," he says. "Section 4. Helping the cared person manage themselves when independent movement is restricted." A pause. "You can't really get your arms out."

"I could get my arms out."

"You'd lose the warmth." He says it plainly. "Sustained warmth is essential to the recovery environment." The spoon is still extended, patient. "Mr. Guile is pretty clear on this."

You look at the spoon. You open your mouth.

His face does nothing, which you're learning is how Bucky looks when something has gone the way he hoped.

The paracetamol kicks in somewhere around the second bowl.

You'd told Bucky the soup was good.

He'd said I know, not with arrogance, just as a fact — he'd checked the recipe three times.

Then your eyelids had started going. You'd said his arm looked like a good place to put your head, which wasn't the most coherent sentence you'd ever produced. He'd said okay before fully processing it, and now you're out cold against his left shoulder.

He hasn't moved in thirty-seven minutes.

Your head is on the metal arm, cheek against the seam where the plates meet. Before you went under you'd said the coolness was refreshing, which he is still turning over. He looks at the arm the way he sometimes does when he forgets to not look at it — cataloguing. The weight of it, and the horrendous history of it. All the particular cruel uses it's been put to.

And then your breathing evens out completely, and you make a small sound that isn't quite a sigh. Your head gets heavier against the metal, and he looks away.

He picks up the book. Chapter 7: Giving People Space Without Disappearing Entirely.

He reads the same page twice. The third time it goes in. He turns it, careful not to shift his shoulder, and keeps going.

Common room, approximately four minutes later

Sam has a photo. He took it from the doorway and has been studying it on his phone with the quiet reverence of a man holding evidence of something he wasn't sure he'd live to see.

The composition is, objectively, a lot: Bucky Barnes, straight-backed, stone-faced, reading a self-help book with his metal arm operating as a headrest for the one person in this compound who had previously survived every intervention anyone had attempted.

Steve had tried asking, back in February. Straightforward, sincere, the full concerned-captain approach. You'd thanked him and kept working.

Sam had tried the peer angle, the hey I'm also tired let's both take a break angle. Clint had once faked a rolled ankle specifically to redirect your attention and you'd called the medic yourself and filed an incident report.

Natasha had silently placed herbal tea near your workstation three times over two weeks. You'd drunk all of it without ever technically agreeing to anything, and kept working through each cup.

Bucky read a book and made soup before he knew for certain you'd need it. And is now a piece of furniture.

"He started the chai first," Steve says. He'd been in the kitchen. He'd watched the whole tea operation without intervening because he hadn't known what he was watching until it was done. "Because it takes longer. So they'd both be ready at the same time."

Sam looks up from his phone. "He planned the timing."

"He planned the timing."

A beat.

"I've been trying to get them to rest since February," Steve says.

"I know."

"I used the captain voice."

"I know, Steve."

"Bucky used a book."

Sam puts his phone in his pocket. From the common room, the particular quality of silence that means someone is asleep drifts through the doorway.

Natasha hasn't said anything. She's been leaning against the counter for the past six minutes, coffee in hand, watching Steve process this in real time, and she finds it extremely interesting.

"Chapter 6," she says.

Steve turns. "What?"

"That's the chapter. Recognising When Someone Needs Care." A sip of coffee. "He told me about the book last week. He was very enthusiastic about the soup section."

"He highlighted it," Steve says, slowly, because he'd seen the book on Bucky's side table and the pencil marks in the margins.

"He highlighted it," Natasha confirms.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

$ join taglist

“Got it, sweetheart,” he says every time, already halfway up before you’ve even finished asking.

At first, it feels normal. Logical, even. You’re pregnant. You’re growing an entire human being. You should be taking it easy.

But then it keeps happening.

“Bucky, can you—” “Yeah.”

“Bucky, would you mind—” “Already on it.”

“Buck, I think I left my phone—” “Kitchen counter. I’ll grab it.”

And he always says it so easily. So gently. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature.

That’s when the guilt starts creeping in.

It hits you one afternoon, hard and sudden, while you’re sitting on the edge of the bed trying to put your socks on. Your stomach is just big enough now to make it awkward, your balance a little off, your patience nonexistent.

“Bucky,” you call out, a little breathless. “Can you help me with—”

He appears in the doorway almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to need something.

“Yeah, doll?” he asks softly.

And something about the way he says it—so attentive, so ready—makes your chest tighten.

“I—” You hesitate, looking down at your feet. “Can you help me with my socks?”

“Course I can.”

He doesn’t tese you. Doesn’t even blink. He just drops down to his knees in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, carefully taking the sock from your hands.

His fingers are warm against your skin as he gently lifts your foot, guiding it into place with slow, deliberate care.

And that’s when it really sinks in.

Because you’ve been doing this all day. All week. Maybe longer.

Asking. Calling. Needing.

“Bucky,” you say quietly.

“Mm?”

He’s focused, adjusting the fabric so it sits comfortably against your ankle, making sure there are no wrinkles.

“Am I… being bossy?”

His hands pause.

Just for a second.

Then he looks up at you, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”

Your throat feels tight all of a sudden. “I feel like I’m just… constantly asking you to do things. Like I can’t do anything myself anymore and I’m just—” you swallow, blinking a little too fast, “—bossing you around all the time.”

Bucky stares at you like you’ve just said something completely absurd.

“Doll,” he says slowly, “you think you’re bossin’ me around?”

“I mean…” you gesture vaguely, frustration bubbling up under the surface. “I am, aren’t I? I’m always asking you for stuff. You never get a break. You’re basically just following me around doing whatever I need—”

“And you think that’s a bad thing?” he cuts in, not harsh, but firm enough to stop you.

You blink at him.

“I just—I don’t want to be that person,” you say, your voice softer now. “I don’t want to be demanding or… or annoying.”

Something in his expression shifts then. Softens in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” he murmurs, gently resting his hands on your knees. “Look at me.”

You hesitate, but yu do.

And the second your eyes meet his, he’s right there.

“You’re not bossy,” he says, clear and unwavering. “Not even a little bit.”

You let out a small, shaky breath. “It feels like I am.”

“Yeah?” he asks gently. “Or does it feel like everything’s just… harder right now?”

That lands deeper than you expect.

Because it’s true.

Everything is harder. Moving, thinking, sleeping, existing—it all takes more effort than it used to. And asking for help? That’s new. That’s uncomfortable.

“I just don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit quietly.

Bucky huffs out a soft breath, something almost like disbelief slipping through.

“Sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head a little. “You could never take advantage of me.”

“You say that, but—”

“No, listen to me.” His tone is still gentle, but there’s something firmer underneath it now. Something grounding. “You’re carryin’ our baby. You’re dealin’ with all the crap that comes with that—feelin’ sick, bein’ exhausted, your body changin’ every day—and you think askin’ me to grab you a glass of water is too much?”

When he puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous.

Still, the guilt lingers. “I just feel like I should be able to do more.”

Bucky’s gaze softens even further.

“You already are,” he says quietly.

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

He shifts closer, one hand coming up to rest gently against your stomach, his touch instinctively protective.

“You’re doin’ somethin’ I can’t,” he murmurs. “You’re growin’ our kid. Every second of every day. You don’t get to clock out from that. So yeah… if I can make things a little easier for you? I’m gonna do it.”

Your eyes sting.

“I don’t mind it,” he continues, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “I don’t feel bossed around. I don’t feel used. I feel…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “useful. Needed.”

Your breath catches.

“I like takin’ care of you,” he says simply. “Always have. This just gives me more of a reason to.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice. No resentment. Just quiet certainty.

And suddenly, all that guilt you’ve been carrying around feels a little lighter.

“You’re sure?” you ask softly.

He lets out a small, fond huff. “Doll, if you were actually bossin’ me around, I’d tell you.”

That earns a weak laugh from you.

“Besides,” he adds, a hint of teasing creeping in now, “you’re way too polite to be bossy. Half the time you’re askin’ like you’re afraid I’m gonna say no.”

You duck your head, a little embarrassed. “Well…”

“Hey.” He nudges your knee gently. “I like when you ask me for things.”

You glance up at him again. “You do?”

“Yeah.” His smile is soft, a little crooked. “Means you trust me.”

That hits you right in the chest.

Because you do. Completely.

“I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” you say, quieter now.

Bucky leans in slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your knee before looking back up at you.

“You couldn’t overwhelm me if you tried,” he murmurs. “Not when it comes to you.”

There’s something so steady about him. So grounding. Like no matter how loud your thoughts get, he’s always right there to quiet them.

You take a slow breath, letting his words settle.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “But you have to promise me something.”

He raises a brow. “What’s that?”

“If I do start getting bossy… like, actually bossy…” you trail off, a little sheepish. “You’ll tell me?”

He considers that for a second, then nods.

“Deal,” he says. “But I’m tellin’ you now—that day’s not comin’.”

You smile a little at that.

“Still,” you insist lightly.

“Alright,” he relents, squeezing your knee gently. “I’ll tell you.”

You nod, satisfied enough with that.

There’s a small pause before you glance down at your other foot, then back at him.

“…Can you do the other sock too?”

Bucky doesn’t even pretend to hesitate.